v-card.’
‘Thanks.’ He made a mental note to get Joe to check the guy out.
‘These things happen,’ she said – then seeing the scepticism in his face, she held up a hand. ‘Duncan was a nice guy.’
Nice?
‘But he was very narrow in his focus.’
Unlike you, Ms VP Legal
.
‘He liked to describe himself as a good, old-fashioned hack.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
‘Basically, as far as I could tell, it meant he would spend as much time as possible in pubs, talking to his “sources”.’ Millington let out a hollow laugh. ‘He thought he was fighting against the idea that journalists should be chained to their desks twenty-four seven, simply rehashing stories from the internet.’
Carlyle glanced around. Now lunchtime was approaching, a steady stream of people began coming into the canteen to checkout the chestnut mushroom, chard and pearl-barley stew and the smoked haddock. Feeling more than peckish, he wondered if his host would do the right thing and feed him. ‘So . . . what kind of stuff did Duncan write about?’
Millington exhaled. ‘A wide range of stuff really.’ She reeled off a number of topics that covered a depressingly banal list of celebrities, reality-TV shows and politicians.
Doesn’t seem such a wide range of things to me, Carlyle thought sourly, just the same old shit. As far as he could see, newspapers in general were now totally redundant, and Sunday newspapers were the most redundant of the lot. He would quite happily never buy another newspaper again. Helen, however, for reasons best known to herself, bought the
Sunday Mirror
, which seemed to be pitched at people with a mental age of eight. Every weekend he picked it up and then vowed never to read it again.
‘It didn’t much matter what it might be,’ Millington continued, ‘Duncan always said that as long as you got something you could stick an
exclusive
tag on, you were sorted.’
‘So he’d sell his granny for a story, eh?’
She stared at him blankly. ‘He didn’t have a granny. Both of them are long dead.’
Lawyers, so fucking literal!
‘What about his work colleagues?’
‘I didn’t meet very many of them.’ She made a show of considering it for a moment. ‘Maybe only one or two.’
‘I’ll need their names.’
‘Okay. But Duncan didn’t really spend much time hanging out with anyone from his work. I think he got on okay with the people there but it was a very competitive place. They didn’t do team spirit at the
Sunday Witness
.’
‘Mm.’ Something else for Joe to follow up. The boy was going to be busy. Maybe he could get WPC Hall to help him. Anita would like that.
Right on cue, his phone started ringing.
‘Joe.’
‘How’s it going?’
Carlyle looked at Millington. ‘I’m speaking to the girlfriend now.’
‘Ex-girlfriend,’ she mumbled.
‘Just quickly then,’ said Joe, as he stifled a yawn. ‘First, it looks like we’re gonna get nothing from the CCTV.’
‘Great.’
‘There’s no way we can get even a partial shot of the killer’s face.’
‘Was that luck? Or did he know what he was doing?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not,’ Carlyle said. ‘What’s the second thing?’
‘Simpson wants to see you.’
‘Oh good.’ The inspector raised his eyes to the sky. ‘The day just keeps getting better and better.’
‘She would like you to get over to Paddington asap.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He gazed out of the window at the palace. It had started to rain. ‘I’m in Victoria anyway. I’ll finish up here, nip over and see her and then meet you back at the station in . . . let’s say a couple of hours.’
‘Fine.’
Ending the call, Carlyle tossed his phone on to the table.
‘Problem?’ Millington asked.
‘Just the usual. Tell me more about last night.’
‘It was very low key,’ she said. ‘I’d booked the tickets weeks ago. Duncan clearly wanted to watch the football instead, but he at least managed to turn up, which wasn’t
‘Thanks.’ He made a mental note to get Joe to check the guy out.
‘These things happen,’ she said – then seeing the scepticism in his face, she held up a hand. ‘Duncan was a nice guy.’
Nice?
‘But he was very narrow in his focus.’
Unlike you, Ms VP Legal
.
‘He liked to describe himself as a good, old-fashioned hack.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
‘Basically, as far as I could tell, it meant he would spend as much time as possible in pubs, talking to his “sources”.’ Millington let out a hollow laugh. ‘He thought he was fighting against the idea that journalists should be chained to their desks twenty-four seven, simply rehashing stories from the internet.’
Carlyle glanced around. Now lunchtime was approaching, a steady stream of people began coming into the canteen to checkout the chestnut mushroom, chard and pearl-barley stew and the smoked haddock. Feeling more than peckish, he wondered if his host would do the right thing and feed him. ‘So . . . what kind of stuff did Duncan write about?’
Millington exhaled. ‘A wide range of stuff really.’ She reeled off a number of topics that covered a depressingly banal list of celebrities, reality-TV shows and politicians.
Doesn’t seem such a wide range of things to me, Carlyle thought sourly, just the same old shit. As far as he could see, newspapers in general were now totally redundant, and Sunday newspapers were the most redundant of the lot. He would quite happily never buy another newspaper again. Helen, however, for reasons best known to herself, bought the
Sunday Mirror
, which seemed to be pitched at people with a mental age of eight. Every weekend he picked it up and then vowed never to read it again.
‘It didn’t much matter what it might be,’ Millington continued, ‘Duncan always said that as long as you got something you could stick an
exclusive
tag on, you were sorted.’
‘So he’d sell his granny for a story, eh?’
She stared at him blankly. ‘He didn’t have a granny. Both of them are long dead.’
Lawyers, so fucking literal!
‘What about his work colleagues?’
‘I didn’t meet very many of them.’ She made a show of considering it for a moment. ‘Maybe only one or two.’
‘I’ll need their names.’
‘Okay. But Duncan didn’t really spend much time hanging out with anyone from his work. I think he got on okay with the people there but it was a very competitive place. They didn’t do team spirit at the
Sunday Witness
.’
‘Mm.’ Something else for Joe to follow up. The boy was going to be busy. Maybe he could get WPC Hall to help him. Anita would like that.
Right on cue, his phone started ringing.
‘Joe.’
‘How’s it going?’
Carlyle looked at Millington. ‘I’m speaking to the girlfriend now.’
‘Ex-girlfriend,’ she mumbled.
‘Just quickly then,’ said Joe, as he stifled a yawn. ‘First, it looks like we’re gonna get nothing from the CCTV.’
‘Great.’
‘There’s no way we can get even a partial shot of the killer’s face.’
‘Was that luck? Or did he know what he was doing?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not,’ Carlyle said. ‘What’s the second thing?’
‘Simpson wants to see you.’
‘Oh good.’ The inspector raised his eyes to the sky. ‘The day just keeps getting better and better.’
‘She would like you to get over to Paddington asap.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He gazed out of the window at the palace. It had started to rain. ‘I’m in Victoria anyway. I’ll finish up here, nip over and see her and then meet you back at the station in . . . let’s say a couple of hours.’
‘Fine.’
Ending the call, Carlyle tossed his phone on to the table.
‘Problem?’ Millington asked.
‘Just the usual. Tell me more about last night.’
‘It was very low key,’ she said. ‘I’d booked the tickets weeks ago. Duncan clearly wanted to watch the football instead, but he at least managed to turn up, which wasn’t
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